5 Times John Noticed Sherlock & 1 Time Where Sherlock Noticed John
by Vivi Marius
Summary: They were unlikely friends, but both of them were just plain unlikely. A magical story of two halves of a whole.
1. Chapter 1

John, in his infinite wisdom as a third year, made sure he sat at the end of the table so as to greet the newest Hufflepuffs. The house had a long-standing tradition that while they all looked out for the others, every other class kept a special eye on each other. The seventh years looked after the fifths, sixths looked out for fourths, fifths looked after thirds, fourths looked after seconds, and thirds looked after firsts. It had really helped John to have his housemates support him so wholeheartedly, and he couldn't wait to repay the favor.

"Alright, John?" a male voice asked. John looked over to see Greg Lestrade, Hufflepuff fifth year and John's personal mentor.

"Alright," John replied. "Congratulations, by the way."

Greg smiled down at the prefect badge pinned on his chest. "They gave it to me as a reward for mentoring your meddling arse," he joked, bumping shoulders with John.

"I wasn't that bad!"

"Mate, you did magic no one ever heard of and needed to be kept out of trouble," Greg said, shaking his head. "Managing the rest of the house will be a cakewalk after you."

John flushed. He had magical talent, that was for sure. He could wave a wand and do whatever magic he wanted, but give him an actual incantation and his spells fizzled. His magical abilities, so far out of the norm and a bit dangerous at times, needed special lessons. But whenever he got frustrated or excited, interesting things tended to happen with his magic. He couldn't really help it, and the longer he studied, the more he found that magic resisted being rationalized. "Was I really that bad?" John asked.

Greg replied with a Look, his eyebrows rising up to say 'Are you really asking me that?' John thought back on his first two years. He had a hard time focusing sometimes, and he made some messes-no, a lot of messes-which Greg had to clean up. John thought back on his first days at Hogwarts; he had barely been able to control his magic. He was better with it now, of course, but even last year had been hard in that respect. His magic just wanted to slip out whenever he was holding a wand. John grinned sheepishly up at Greg, who understood that his point had been made. "I'm looking forward to you getting a firstie," he admitted. "I know I learned a lot about myself while I was trying to help you. I think the same is going to happen to you."

John smiled as Headmistress McGonagall called for attention on the platform. She made a short speech and then the new students were being led in. The Sorting Hat sang his song, calling for house unity and fellowship. John eyed the Slytherin table across the hall warily. Any Hufflepuff knew how to make friends, regardless of house, but Slytherins were the most resistant.

After the Hat's song, the sorting started. Names flew by, the entire Hall listening intently for the one defining shout of the Hat. Hufflepuff got a stretch of new students, all looking around the hall with bright eyes. Each time a new student was given to Hufflepuff, the house banged on the table four quick times and shouted the last name of the new student before cheering as normal. Greg said that the tradition went back twenty-four years, as Hufflepuffs had started doing it after the Second Wizarding War.

Almost halfway through the Sorting, Professor Creevy called up, "Holmes, Sherlock!" John nudged Greg. "Is that—"

"Mycroft Holmes's little brother?" Greg interrupted. "Yeah, it is." They watched, unsurprised, as the newest Holmes was sorted into Slytherin. The Slytherins all cheered, Mycroft clapped politely and inclined his head towards his little brother, who bared his teeth in response and sat down as far away as he could from his housemates. "Well," Greg said. "There's gotta be a story there."

"Don't blame the kid. His brother is Head Boy. Coming into school with such big shoes to fill? I wouldn't be happy at all," John replied, his gaze sweeping over to Harry at the Gryffindor table as "Homer, Ian" became a Ravenclaw. He looked back at the platform to see a girl, "Hooper, Molly," get called up. She was under the hat for barely a second before it shouted "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Four rapid bangs, a loud cry of "HOOPER!" and then cheers accompanied Molly to her seat next to John. He introduced himself and Greg, clasping her on the shoulder for a second. "Ipsom, Veruca," was declared a Slytherin; John immediately watched the young Holmes boy cross his arms over his chest, refusing to celebrate. All throughout the feast, John's eyes kept sliding back to this strange boy who was so ill-at-ease with the rest of the world.


	2. Chapter 2

School settled in, with coursework and homework and all the pains that entailed. Being a third-year, John also started two new classes: Care of Magical Creatures and Arithmancy. Both were interesting and challenging, as they were based less around spells and wand-work and more hands-on work. For the first time in what felt like forever, John was actually on par with his classmates and did not need the special schooling that he had required when attending most of his other classes.

He was coming back to the dorm quite late, as John had been studying with a Ravenclaw classmate for Arithmancy. It took longer than anticipated because it was hard to concentrate with Sarah being so pretty on the other side of the table, nose wrinkling as she encountered a hard problem. His thoughts on his lovely study partner, it took John a moment to realize he could hear voices the closer he got to the common room. Curiously, they were speaking in low tones, occasionally snickering to themselves. John heard a responding voice and a thump, which sparked John's senses. Someone was being bullied, and close to the Hufflepuff common room.

John slowed his steps and snuck up on the corner of the hallway, taking care to peek around it. Five students, all his age or older, were surrounding a lump of ropes on the floor. John couldn't see who the target of their juvenile threats was, but he knew he had to break this up. Unfortunately, John had no idea to do that. He put his school bag over his shoulder rather than across his body, thinking that it could make a nice distraction or weapon, if it came to that, and walked down the corridor as normal.

The group didn't notice him until he was close. John heard a muttered curse as they all whipped their heads around and saw him. One of them, their leader, John supposed, narrowed his eyes at John's approach.

"Watson," he practically snarled, "Just keep walking."

John couldn't help it, he laughed. "You're joking, right? I mean, you really expect me, of all people, to let you continue to bully another student?" he asked them. Some of them looked uncomfortable at his words, the others looked a lot angrier. John recognized most of the group, one in particular got his blood boiling. "Gregson," he snapped. "You're in with this lot? You're a Hufflepuff, you should know better."

"Shut it, Watson," Gregson replied, advancing towards him. John just raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to make a move.

Gregson didn't, but one of the others did. He lunged for John, a move so stupid John couldn't even believe his good luck. He got down on one knee, seized the boy by the robes (a red-colored spell whizzing past his left ear in the process) and tossed him over his head, into one of the other advancing boys. They crashed into each other and then the floor, twin groans coming from their mouths. John palmed his wand and felt the magic swelling in his body, aching to get out. He aimed at Gregson, letting the magic flow from his wand in a quick burst, followed by throwing his school bag. Gregson blocked the magic, but hadn't noticed the school bag. He took it to the gut and fell to the floor.

John was seized by one of his attackers, pinning his arms behind him as the last assailant, the only girl in the lot, advanced on him. John blasted a spell at the person holding him, who fell forward on top of John. He dropped the boy to the ground and raised his wand to deal with the girl, only to find her in a full body-bind on the floor, Sherlock Holmes standing behind her defiantly.

"You?" John said, confused. Who would be dumb enough to pick a fight with the Head Boy's younger brother?

People burst out of the Hufflepuff common room, surveying the damage in the corridor. Greg was one of the first people out of the room, his mouth twisting into an unhappy frown as he saw what had happened.

John had no idea what to say, his mind blank. "We…had a disagreement," he said, lamely.

The corners of Greg's mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile. "Yep, you disagreed all over the hallway," he agreed. The boys who had been forcefully thrown by John stood up, edging towards the other end of the hallway. Several Hufflepuffs moved to block off both ends of the corridor, trapping assailants, John, and Sherlock around them. "I think I can guess what happened," he continued, eyes flickering between John and Sherlock. "You're all going to your heads of houses. This is a disgrace. Anderson, Donovan—what were you thinking? You can be sure that Johnson will ban you from the Quidditch match next week. Wilkes, you're housemates with Holmes. With both Holmeses, actually. You think Mycroft is going to let this one go? Chang, those applications for the chess tournament next month? Consider them rejected," Greg cut each one of them down in turn, finally landing on Gregson.

"Gregson. Your tie and robes," Greg demanded, holding out his hand. Gregson hesitated until Greg barked, "NOW!" at him, after which he quickly complied. Once in hand, Greg shook the garments in front of Gregson's face. "You are such a disgrace to Hufflepuff that I won't let you wear our colors. Consider yourself grounded until you learn our values more thoroughly. Hufflepuffs! Adam Gregson is no longer allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied, lest he forget our core beliefs of togetherness, family, and fair and unbiased treatment of others." Everyone nodded solemnly; those near the entrance to the common room passed the news back to those inside.

Finally, that left John and Sherlock. Greg considered them both for a moment before turning to Sherlock, who tipped his chin up defiantly. "Holmes, I expect a full account to be given to your head of house of what happened here and whatever led up to this," he charged.

"And why do you think I would listen to you?" Sherlock sneered. John raised his eyebrows at the hostility. Really, Greg was doing him a favor by practically sentencing his bullies with a crime.

Greg crossed his arms and shrugged. "You can either tell Bouch or your brother. It's your call," he offered nonchalantly.

Sherlock glared at him. "Fine, I'll see Bouch," he spat, tucking his wand inside of his robes.

"John," Greg said, looking at him tiredly. "We'll take you up to see Hudson, alright?" John breathed a sigh of relief. Really, he and Sherlock had gotten off easy. A simple chat with their heads of houses and this would all be done. Glancing at Donovan, Anderson, and a Wilkes, however…they looked like they wanted revenge. Greg drew John's attention by clapping his shoulder. "You made it three weeks without getting in trouble. That's a record for you; keep up the good work, alright?" They grinned at each other cheekily before Greg shouted for everyone to get moving. Greg went with the bullies to make sure they actually went to their heads of houses, and two Hufflepuffs split off to accompany Gregson. The rest of John's housemates shuffled back into the common room, muttering to themselves.

John tucked his wand away and went to retrieve his school bag and was intercepted by Sherlock. "Why did you do that? I had it sorted," he said, his voice sour.

John raised his eyebrows. "Five against one isn't sorted, mate," he replied.

"They'll be even worse and even sneakier now. Thanks for that."

"Hey," John snapped. "You don't have to go it alone, alright? You know, ask for help, make some friends?"

Sherlock sneered at him. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," he snarled before heading down the corridor.

"Yeah, it protected you a lot tonight," John said sarcastically. "Oh wait, no, that was me. My mistake."

Sherlock said nothing, just continued to walk off. John slung his bag across his body and shook his head before heading past the common room to find Hudson's office. What a nutter that boy was, thinking he had everything well at hand. Hopefully now, things would be better for him.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had _promised_.

That was the thing. As a rule, Sherlock didn't do birthdays or anniversaries or holidays, as far as John knew. He just trudged along, chasing after what interested him and ignoring everything else. He was a fourth year and had never been to Hogsmeade, for Merlin's sake. John knew that Sherlock would find the village fascinating, which was why he suggested that they meet for his birthday and go down to the village together.

Sherlock had _promised_.

But that didn't stop John from feeling like an idiot, waiting for his ever elusive friend to show his face. He stood to the side of the courtyard, by the statue of the flying pig, just where he said he'd be. Sherlock was fifteen minutes late and John was sure that everyone who passed (which was most of the school) knew that he was being stood up. He licked his lip and searched the courtyard again. Still no Sherlock, but by now, everyone who wanted to go to Hogsmeade was pretty much there. John was contemplating leaving and going into town on his own when he noticed a tall figure quickly cutting through the hallways.

Sherlock burst into the courtyard and locked eyes with John. "I know, I know, I'm late," he said, winded. "But John, you won't believe what these potions are doing. I was brewing Draught of Living Death last night, and instead of using beetle's eyes, I used scorpion's eyes, and…"

John smiled indulgently and let Sherlock ramble on about his latest experiments. He started walking towards Hogsmeade and Sherlock kept up, gesticulating wildly as he spoke. Eventually Sherlock ended up walking backwards in front of John, and John had to keep maneuvering him around so he wouldn't get hurt.

"Sherlock," John interrupted when Sherlock paused to take a breath.

"What? Should I have asked you how your day was? That's what normal people do, yes? I mean, please, John, tell me about how you stayed up late writing that essay for Transfiguration and how you properly mastered that one spell for Defense Against the Dark Arts and how they didn't have any tea left over in the Great Hall so you had to go into the kitchens and get some from the house-elves—"

"No, Sherlock, I was going to tell you that we're here," John said, pointing over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock whirled around and stopped to take in the village for the first time. John couldn't see his face, but he could imagine Sherlock's hungry eyes devouring all the deductions before him. Sherlock reached behind him, grabbed John's wrist, and took off, dragging a grinning John through the village.

Sherlock told him about how this building had been destroyed in the Second Wizarding War and that building had a secret passage under it, how this barkeep was watering down the firewhiskey and that sales clerk was stealing some of the food for the toads from the shop she worked for, on and on and on as they went into every building on the main street. Finally, John steered Sherlock into the Three Broomsticks and parked Sherlock at a table before going to get them drinks. He returned with a glass of mead (for him) and some butterbeer (for Sherlock).

"Drink up," John ordered, following his own advice.

Sherlock re-focused on John. "How did you…" he started before giving a small smile. He leaned back in his seat and said with a bit of pride, "Very good, John." John grinned and took Sherlock's money pouch out of his pocket, passing it back to Sherlock.

"The student becomes the teacher," John replied, grinning widely.

"Now now, don't get ahead of yourself," Sherlock lightly scolded, taking a drink of butterbeer and holding up John's wand in his long, pale fingers.

"Berk," John said fondly, taking his wand back and putting it inside his robes. Sherlock hummed noncommittally in response. They continued joking and talking as the finished their drinks, staying inside for a while since it was still bitterly cold out on the street. It was warm and cozy inside the pub, the chattering of the other customers a pleasant hum in the background. They were unbothered, just two more friends in a sea of students.

When they finally left the pub, John turned to go back to Hogwarts, but Sherlock stopped him. "Wait, what do people do on their birthdays?" Sherlock asked.

"Er," John said intelligently. "Have cake? Throw a party? Get presents?"

"That's the one," Sherlock replied with a nod. "I didn't do that for you."

John sighed. "You actually came out to Hogsmeade and you technically paid for the drinks. That's enough."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it isn't. You're my only friend, John. You have been ever since that day you stopped those insipid bullies. I need to learn how to do these things correctly," he said decisively. Sherlock waved his arm out, encompassing the whole village. "Pick something. I'll buy it for you."

"No, Sherlock—" As usual, Sherlock didn't listen. Instead, he threw John into the street and then tapped his foot, a universal 'I'm waiting on your fat arse' signal. So John headed off down the road with Sherlock loping behind him.

He was about to pass Dervish and Banges when Sherlock guided him into the store. John looked around in the shop; it was one they hadn't been in yet. There were hundreds of magical items for sale, from Remembralls to enchanted mirrors. Over in the back corner of the shop was a display on different pocket watches with a sign that read, "Pocket Watches for Newly Of-Age Wizards." Sherlock practically dragged John over, apparently remembering that John turned seventeen this year. He and John both poured over the selections carefully.

There were a lot to look at. Ones with trains on the front, ones with maps for backings, ones with ancient runes instead of numbers, ones that tracked the phases of the moon, ones that had several markings for how people were doing or where they were. John looked and looked until he saw one that entranced him. It was a creamy, rosey gold color with a delicate swirling pattern on the front. The clock itself not only told the time, but also the date and sunrise and sunset. The whole thing was—there was no other word for it—beautiful.

Sherlock, of course, noticed. He swooped it out of John's hand and went up to the counter. John protested—it was too much, really, all he needed was something simple—and then protested again when the sales clerk spoke the price, but it fell on deaf ears. The watch and chain bought, Sherlock turned and gave it to John. John took it, examined it again, and breathed, "Thank you." Sherlock looked inordinately pleased and favored John with a smile. "Happy birthday," he replied.


	4. Chapter 4

John looked back at the castle for the last time. He couldn't quite believe he was leaving Hogwarts for good this time. It housed so many memories, and he was sad to leave. John knew he needed to move on to the next step in life but it was still a bit daunting to leave the comforting familiarity of Hogwarts behind.

The whistle for the train sounded, and John quickly hopped on board with his trunk. It was happening, whether he liked it or not. He had been measuring his life in lasts this week. Last time he would take exams. Last time he would pull an all-nighter for a grade. Last time he slept in the dorm. Last time he would eat breakfast in the Great Hall. And now, here he was, on his last train ride away from Hogwarts.

John made his way down the train, looking in on the different compartments and seeing lots of students, but not the one he was looking for. Finally, he noticed the familiar curly black hair in a compartment in the back. He slid open the door and stepped inside. Sherlock didn't look away from the window until John had put his trunk away and sat down. His eyes did their familiar focusing in on him before he smiled.

"It will still be here, John," he reassured, going back to looking out the window.

"I know that," John said defensively. "It's just—"

"It will be here without you," Sherlock finished. John glared at Sherlock before looking away. They rode in silence for a while before Sherlock stretched his feet out into John's lap. John pushed them away and Sherlock just set them next to John.

"You're impossible."

"No, just improbable," Sherlock shot back, and they smiled at each other. They talked about John's plans to be a healer once he got his NEWT scores in, about the experiments Sherlock wanted to run this summer, about seeing each other again and writing and keeping in touch. Somehow Sherlock made John more relaxed, and he found himself often listening to the cadence of Sherlock's voice and watching Sherlock's eyes dart about the compartment. This, too, would be something to miss.

As usual, they got lost in each other. They talked and they didn't. They smiled and they didn't. They touched, and remained touching. John kept thinking about Sherlock's lips, his curls, his voice. Kissing Sherlock would be—well, John imagined it would be really heavenly. He'd kissed plenty of others, earning him the nickname of Four Houses Watson, but Sherlock…well, Sherlock didn't have much interest in people. He might not have been kissed at all, ever. The thought made John ache with longing to press his lips to Sherlock's.

All too soon, it came to an end. Sherlock had nudged John that they were getting close, so John had pulled both of their trunks down as they waited for the train to stop. It came in right on schedule, and Sherlock got up to leave, and this really couldn't wait any longer.

"Sherlock, wait," John said, standing up. They were already close in the small compartment; it wouldn't take much to just close the final inches between them. Sherlock turned back towards John, and John lost whatever else he was going to say. He tried to think of it before deciding to just get on with kissing. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and leaned in, giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away, but instead, Sherlock leaned in, too.

And then, they were kissing. They were actually kissing. Sherlock's lips were soft, pressing gently against his. Sherlock's hands came to circle John's waist and John, emboldened by Sherlock's willingness, ran his tongue over the seam of Sherlock's lips. They parted, and John's tongue slipped inside to meet Sherlock's. John slid his hand up into Sherlock's hair and Sherlock groaned into John's mouth. They kissed for several minutes, until they both seemed to come back to themselves and realized where they were. They pulled apart, and John shuffled his feet, suddenly embarrassed. "Er—" he started.

"Finally," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "It took you long enough, John, honestly."

"Oi, you prat, I didn't see you trying to kiss me, either," John replied, smiling. Sherlock merely glanced away, rolling his eyes. He reached out to take his trunk but John intercepted, taking his hand instead. "Wish I'd done it sooner, though."

Sherlock was staring at their joined hands. "Visit me this summer," he said suddenly. "I'm going to go mad. Mycroft will try to micromanage me into an inch of my life. On second thought, let me visit you."

John laughed, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "We'll work something out," he promised.


	5. Chapter 5

He sat in the window and he waited, day after day after day. It was almost impossible to move after the accident. His career as a Hit Wizard was gone, done forever. He would probably never run again or dance again or do a hundred million other mundane things he had taken for granted. John had tried everything to fix himself after the poison had run its course. Stabbed in the shoulder and the leg; the poison had been slowed but couldn't be eradicated. He was living on borrowed time, with the poison seeping into his body little by little. So John sat in the window of the Leaky Cauldron and waited. Soon enough, the poison would reach his heart. It could take days or years…but John supposed it didn't matter at this point. He was marked for death and that was that.

What had gone wrong? John had studied to become a Healer, wanting to work at St. Mungo's, and then…then he had ended up detaining a rowdy patient who was actually a criminal, and he had remembered how good he was with his magic. And after that, he had been hooked. Signed up to be a Hit Wizard and worked alongside with Greg, who was an Auror now, bringing in dangerous criminals. It was exhilarating.

And then one stupid mistake. John had disarmed the man of his wand, but had missed the poisoned knife. He had gone in for arrest and…that was that. He was twenty-two years old and death was slowly but surely coming for him.

And so Death took John Watson for his own.

John sighed and rubbed a carving in the table. Initials—RRH—with a plus OMM inside a heart. John hoped that whoever RRH and OMM were, they were happy somewhere together. But this pub had been around for ages, and for all John knew, the couple would be escorting him to Death's embrace.

He was bored, that was true. But John didn't want to start something only to leave it unfinished. That upset people, he knew. And the people he was leaving behind didn't deserve that. No one except for Greg knew what had happened. Not Harry. Not Mike. And definitely not Sherlock.

Besides, how are you supposed to tell your boyfriend that you were dying and wanted to be left alone? How were you supposed to tell someone so innocent and trusting that you would be leaving them forever? Better to just break up and not give a reason. Sherlock would concoct some reasons for himself and this way he might be able to get himself together and find someone new to love. The memories of their time together were not enough for John, but they would have to do. He didn't want to burden Sherlock with such responsibility.

John looked out the window again, and his heart skipped a beat. Standing across the street was Sherlock himself, as if John's thoughts had summoned him there. He looked—Merlin—he looked just as devastating as ever. He was dressed muggle today, or as muggle as he could. Black suit, white shirt, blue scarf and long, swirling coat. John knew how much Sherlock liked the coat; he had often privately thought that Sherlock loved the dramatics of a cloak and strived to wear something that gave that sense of drama, even in a muggle disguise. Sherlock was waiting, too, but John didn't know what he was waiting for. He had turned towards solving puzzles in the past few years, maybe this was something to do with that.

John watched him for long minutes, trying desperately to figure out how Sherlock was eating and what he was feeling from sight alone. Sherlock could have done it John, if he was paying attention, which he was not. John shrunk back from the window as much as he could, at any rate. If Sherlock saw him, John didn't know what he would do. He briefly entertained the idea of a reunion. Sherlock would take one look at John and know exactly what was happening. He would forgive John and take him back to his flat, where they would both quietly wait for John's end.

But of course, that wouldn't happen. Sherlock straightened as he saw whatever he was looking for down the street. A man came up to talk to Sherlock, who looked puzzled for a moment before gasping as his eyes widened. He took off down the street and how John ached to run after him but he couldn't. He could only sit and wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock noticed John.

Of course he did. That is his job, that's what he does. But he let John think he has escaped Sherlock's consciousness for the moment because he's just gotten a lead on that really interesting warlock case, and also Sherlock isn't ready yet.

He knew, that when John broke up with him after his accident, that something was up. John thought he had won and Sherlock let him, at least for the moment. John's sudden unhappiness with their relationship was obviously a lie and Sherlock simply had to figure out why the change of heart. Naturally, he went to Lestrade, who had refused to speak to him for several days before finally giving in and telling Sherlock what he wanted to know.

John, slowly being poisoned and waiting to die.

Sherlock filched the poison from the evidence in the Ministry of Magic and began to work on an antidote. While a bezoar might heal common poisons, it was no match against specialized ones like this. And Sherlock was sure it was specialized. He was sure, in fact, that it had been made just for John. So there were three parts to this puzzle: one, brewing an antidote; two, giving the antidote to John; and three, finding out who wanted his boyfriend dead. Simple.

However, simple doesn't mean easy.

The potion was taking much longer than Sherlock anticipated. He was getting close, but he was still missing something. Until the day after Sherlock saw John, when it hit him: the poison was made for John. So John must be a part of the antidote.

Immediately Sherlock started adding bits of John to the potions. He broke into John's tiny, abysmal flat and took some hairs from his brush, some clipped nails from his trash. It took another day or two of experimenting, but Sherlock finally got a batch that worked.

He made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron as quickly as he could, only to find that John was not in his usual seat by the window. Sherlock, fearing the worst, apparated to John's flat and broke in to find that John was asleep on his bed, though he was obviously in pain. His forehead was doing that scrunchy thing that Sherlock had only seen when John had broken some ribs in a Quidditch accident during his fourth year. Sherlock's heart contracted, but he ignored it in favor of going over to his boyfriend and shaking him awake.

John struggled against him, but as Sherlock had predicted, he couldn't find the strength to attack. "John," he said, sliding an arm under him and helping him to sit up. "You need to drink this."

John groaned, tucking his head against Sherlock's neck. He muttered something that might have been an approximation of Sherlock's name. "Yes, that's right, it's me," Sherlock replied, his voice deep and soothing. He held the flask to John's lips and practically poured the antidote down John's throat. Once it was gone, Sherlock lowered John to his bed, then sat on John's kitchen table to keep an eye on John and think.

It took a few hours, but eventually John's forehead smoothed out. His color improved and his breath wasn't as labored. It wasn't long before he opened his eyes, looking around. He stopped when he saw Sherlock and rubbed his eyes. "It wasn't a dream," he said with a sigh.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock told him. John made a sound like a laugh. "No, really you are. If you had just told me what was going on instead of trying to break up with me, then I would have had the antidote sooner and you wouldn't have almost died."

John heard what Sherlock was trying to say, he always did. He opened his arms and Sherlock crossed the room to lay down next to John. Sherlock pressed his cheek to John's chest, hearing John's beating heart. Sherlock shuffled closer and John pet his hair. "I promise I won't break up with you again," John said, his voice serious.

"Even if you're dying."

"Yep, even if I'm dying. You're stuck with me until you don't want me anymore," John replied easily.

"Impossible," Sherlock sniffed. "I will always want you."

John pressed kisses to Sherlock's hair. They clung to each other in silence for a while, unwilling to separate. Finally, Sherlock spoke, his voice husky. "Move back in with me. Let's go—I ran into Professor Hudson. I did some favors for her and she offered us a place to live in muggle London. Let's just be together for a while."

"Alright," John said, pulling Sherlock up to kiss him. John took the kiss for what it was and gentled the frantic edge to it that Sherlock was feeling. Sherlock needed John in so many ways, but he was lucky because John needed him too. Sherlock would never be bored again in his life. John would always have someone to care for. They were going to find out who targeted John and take him or her down together. They were going to start the rest of their lives together soon, but for now, they broke their kiss and laid back down on the bed. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, hands trailing up and down his back. Sherlock traced John's face, touched where wrinkles would eventually form. Outside the tiny flat, it began to rain, and inside it, two people realized they'd never be lonely again.


End file.
